Last week, my outdoor thermometer read an astonishing 68 degrees Fahrenheit!
You gotta admit, that’s a preposterous temperature for this time of year! It’s the middle of winter. February is just getting underway. Plus, this is Ohio, a Great Lakes state.
We’re supposed to be scraping windshields and shoveling snow! Any temperature above freezing is unnatural!
Moreover, the week before, we rudely prodded poor ol’ Buckeye Chuck awake, yanked him from his snug burrow, and demanded he prognosticate regarding the whereabouts of the season.
I don’t trust the opinion of any groundhog when it comes to forecasting weather or seasons, so I didn’t pay attention. But I do trust (well, sorta) what the Old Farmer’s Almanac — the one with yellow covers and a hole in the upper-left corner — says. While not always accurate, I think the Old Farmer’s Almanac has the best long-range track record around. I’d rather put my money on them than a cantankerous woodchuck.
According to the OFA’s 2024 edition, this iteration of winter will be “near normal or colder,” with snowfall “above normal across most snow-prone areas.” On top of which, they also predict a cooler than normal spring for our area.
Thankfully, we haven’t gotten much snow — at least not yet. And I don’t think there’s any disagreement with viewing our winter weather so far as atypical. Weird, if you prefer.
Frankly, I don’t know what to make of it. I’m confused and more than a bit disconcerted.
Luckily I have a woodpile — a fine jumble of logs on silent standby until I get around to their sawing, splitting, and stacking. Only now, that woodpile is not work that demands to be done, but rather, what you’d call my “firewood futures” now awaiting processing.
Eh? Well, I’ve been cutting, splitting, and stacking whenever time, weather, and inclination align. And I’m happy to report this heating season’s firewood needs are now covered. I’ve readied firewood aplenty to see us through to spring — regardless of whether it comes in two weeks or two months!
This means there’s no longer a frantic rush or worrisome obligation, no looming threat of an impending freezing doom to keep me working, regardless of rain or snow, ice or cold.
I can work when I want, or not, as the spirit moves, unmotivated by seasonal fickleness.
Not only is that wonderfully fulfilling, but it frees and puts me in a secure place that allows for an additional bonus of work-without-pressure days I can actually enjoy.
Labor becomes pleasure.
Working in my woodpile at my leisure is also now an act of therapy — especially in these trying times. I find solace and inner peace among the sawdust; a settled perspective I need, even if it’s often more by acceptance than agreement or even understanding.
When I split a chunk of ash or walnut, I hold time and energy in my hand. A meaningful contribution to my future.
I also hold history.
A piece of oak or sycamore might have been a sapling when this country was founded. Who knows the storms it has weathered? But I appreciate that lifespan and will burn it with remembrance and due respect.
Sometimes I sit on a handy log and look around. Currently, just up the road, the view from my woodpile is of white and yellow patches — snowdrops and winter aconites — covering large portions of a neighbor’s yard. The year’s first blooms — lovely and reassuring harbingers, delightfully welcome.
I also take regular pauses to enjoy the drumming of a certain downy woodpecker who regularly quick-hammers staccato beats from a nearby maple snag. The dapper little bird whacks out announcements like bursts of machine-gun fire. Fast, ringing snaps that carry a long ways.
There’s much discussion among bird experts as to just what message is being delivered by a drumming woodpecker — or even if there is a message.
Similar to songs, drumming seems to be a learned behavior, both functionally and neurologically. But is it territorial, or a species-specific call to procreate?
What amazes me is how the little woodpeckers always manage to find trees and limbs — or sometimes poles, posts, or parts of a building — that produce the same ringing percussive tone.
The slightly larger hairy woodpeckers have a similar ability, and while their hammered tones sound almost identical, they’re rhythmically different.
Rhythm patterns of red-bellied and pileated woodpeckers are audibly dissimilar — easy to tell apart. But neither species seems particularly concerned with the hammered sounds. Both drum out calls in a range of pitches and tonal variations. In other words, for them, it’s more about the pattern than the instrument.
I’m also now hearing a change amongst the cardinals. No longer content with a sharp, single-note punctuated chirrup, males have recently begun singing a “What cheer—cheer—cheer!” song. It means spring is on the way!
Flowers bloom, birds sing and drum — while weird weather can have you wondering where you’re at if you pay too close attention to the calendar or almanacs. Time and season are on the move; the earth remains on course — spinning, tilting, following its eternally prescribed elliptical pathway around the sun.
Working in my woodpile bolsters my faith in nature — even as my faith in mankind falters and fades.
I’m glad I have a pile of logs to cut.
Reach Jim McGuire at [email protected].
